


Rewrite the Stars

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Molly is a Doctor, Romance, not related to TAB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 04:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13356984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: For Sherlock and Molly, it seems the universe is determined to keep them apart. But what if they decided to fight the universe? Based on "Rewrite the Stars," from The Greatest Showman.





	Rewrite the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> So, here I am, busting out another oneshot, while my many WIPs continue to gather dust. I cannot apologize enough. But maybe this is just the thing to get me back in the writing game. Anyway, if you haven't seen The Greatest Showman yet, YA NEED TO. Seriously, I could rave and rave and RAVE about it. I won't, because I only have so much room to write here, and you guys just want to get to the story. If you've read this far, you have truly angelic patience.
> 
> This Victorian!lolly fic is not, in any way, related to The Abominable Bride. Molly is a doctor, but is also known to be a woman. Note: this actually DID happen in the Victorian Era! I looked it up! It was rare, but there WERE a few female doctors! Sure, pretending to be a man might have been an easier, less scandalous way to go, but it wasn't the ONLY way to go! How cool is that?
> 
> Okay, I'm done. Happy reading!

> _What if we rewrite the stars,  
>  Say you were made to be mine?_

Molly rubbed furiously at tear-filled eyes, growling in frustration at herself. Honestly, what had she expected? That Mr. and Mrs. Holmes would embrace her as one of their own? That they would see past her upbringing, her shabby, second-hand attire, and her current choice of profession? Indeed, the very fact that she worked for her living was enough to give them pause, had her other attributes not already cemented their low opinion.  
  
_Rabble_ , they had called her last night, barely sparing her a glance, whilst fixing their son with matching glares that clearly demonstrated their regard for her.  
  
Her only comfort, small though it may be, was the horrified look on Sherlock’s face. He did not agree with their assessment, this she knew. Quite the contrary, he was uncharacteristically open with his affections. And, for a woman so accustomed to being either censured or ignored because of her sex, his earnest attentions had been most welcome. Unfortunately, that did not change his parents’ opinion, nor would it keep the inevitable scandal at bay, should they become involved.

The solution was simple: they would not become involved. Molly would distance herself from the charming, intoxicating, infuriating man she had fallen in love with. Simple… but not _easy_.

Wiping the last of the tears from her face, she steeled herself and went about her work. To be sure, it was unusual, almost unheard of, for a woman to pursue a career in medicine - particularly within the cold confines of the mortuary. Nevertheless, she had made a name of herself within the field, as Bart’s Hospital’s first female physician, and the more respectable portion of its staff gave credit to her obvious skill and extensive education, instead of her gender.

That portion increased when Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, declared her the only competent doctor in the place, and refused to work with anyone else. Which, considering his family's good name and colossal fortune, and his brother's prominent position in the government, meant that her position was secure.

Working with Sherlock Holmes had intimidated her at first, but as their acquaintance lengthened, it also deepened, and Molly's heart was lost long before he announced his intent to win it. And no sooner had she lost it, than she knew she could never have him. A romance between them was impossible. He would surely be cut off from his family, lose his inheritance, his social standing, his friends, and would almost certainly be forbidden from ever entering her mortuary again.

Molly shook these thoughts from her head and returned her focus where it belonged. She had much to do, a post-mortem to perform and death certificates to sign. Donning her father’s spectacles, one of the few mementoes she still carried of his, she set about making a Y-incision in Mr. Harrison’s chest. The man was well into his eighties, and had lived a full and happy life, according to his oldest son, to whom she’d had the unfortunate duty to break the news of his passing. Even so, Molly felt real sorrow for the man’s family. She knew all too well the pain of losing a beloved father.

Hours later, while in the process of sewing up Mr. Harrison’s chest, she heard footsteps, and looked up to see Sherlock approaching, a serious expression on his face. Her heart lurched, and she averted her gaze, resuming her work with more vigor than perhaps was necessary. She pressed her mouth into a hard line, willing her eyes to stay dry.

“Molly,” his deep voice washed over her.

She inhaled sharply and stiffened for a moment, before shaking her head and continuing her work.

“Molly,” he tried again.

“No, Sherlock,” she whispered.

He sighed, then went silent, but remained where he was. Molly hadn’t really expected him to leave, but any hope of avoiding this conversation was lost. Soon enough, she would be finished, and would have no choice but to speak with him. Molly took time and care with each stitch, dragging out the process much longer than her usual time. And judging by the occasional, soft _huff_ she heard from the only other live occupant of the mortuary, Sherlock knew perfectly well what she was doing.

With the last stitch, Molly straightened, and reached for the surgical scissors on the table. Instead, she found a hand - warm, strong, and gripping hers a bit forcefully. She gasped and her eyes flew to Sherlock, who, in anticipation of her move, had put himself between her and the instrument she had aimed for. Her hand tingled in his, the sensation shooting up her arm and directly into her pounding heart. _Damn him_.

“I-I have... blood on my hands,” she stammered.

One corner of his lips ticked upward for the briefest moment. “I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it, Molly.”

She looked down at Mr. Harrison’s forearm. “You say that now-”

“And I’ll say it again. Forever.”

“Sherlock,” she shook her head.

Using his free hand, he caught her chin and tilted her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes, though the color of ice, burned with furious intensity. “I mean it. Nothing my parents, or society, or anyone has to say can change how I feel.”

She blinked against fresh tears. “You’ll lose everything. Your status, your inheritance, your friends… all because of me.”

“My inheritance was lost the moment I chose to be a detective,” he stated matter-of-factly. Molly blinked in surprise, but before she could form a reply, he spoke again. “My friends consist of John, whom you have already met, his wife Mary, whose passion for feminism perhaps rivals your own, and Inspector Lestrade, and I very much doubt he would disapprove. And society can hang, for all I care!” He moved closer, his eyes ablaze with that same intensity. “And the only way I could possibly lose everything… would be to lose _you_.”

Molly sobbed helplessly, leaning further into his gentle hold on her. “But… your family…”

“Their opinions don’t matter to me,” he insisted as he swiped his thumb across her dampened cheek.

“But they’re your _parents_ ,” she pressed. “And your brother, God only knows what he could do if he found out.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “He already knows.”

“He... “ Molly blinked rapidly. “ _What?_ How…?”

“My brother has many resources at his disposal, and never fails to make use of them, particularly in regards to me.” He grimaced in obvious annoyance, but his features softened after a moment. “For what it’s worth, I do believe he rather likes you.”

She stared, dumbfounded. “But he… he doesn’t even know me.”

“While it is true that Mycroft doesn’t know as much as he believes, he does know a great deal more than most. And he knows enough about you to offer his consent and blessing where my parents will not.” The burning intensity had returned, accompanied by a surprising vulnerability. “That is, of course, if _you_ will consent to having me.”

Molly sighed; her heart and her mind were still at war, and the look in his eyes was hardly any help. It was so dreadfully hard to refuse when he looked at her like that. But refuse him, she must. Even as her heart shattered, even as it willed her to step closer, she forced out the words, “I can’t.”

As if someone had doused the flame behind his eyes, Sherlock’s expression closed off, and he took a step away from her. “I see,” he muttered coldly. “Forgive my impertinence. You may be assured it will not happen again. Good day.”

And with that, he was gone. Molly remained still as his receding footsteps faded into silence. Then, and only then, did she allow herself to crumble to the dingy mortuary floor, and weep for what she could never have.

* * *

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully. Her was completed early, much to the satisfaction of her employer, Dr. Stamford. He had, from the date of her first interview, been one of the respectable few who put more stock in her skills than her sex. Stamford was a fair employer, even kind, and unlike most employers, when the day’s work was done ahead of time, he left the decision to her whether or not she would stay and complete other small but necessary tasks. More often than not, she would stay to complete her time, thus earning not only the good opinion of her employer and other superiors, but also a sense of gratification and great accomplishment.

Today, she made an exception.

Stamford made no argument when she announced she would be leaving early, but she could see the concern and curiosity in his eyes. He would undoubtedly want an explanation the next morning, one she was loathe to give. This day was one she rather wished to forget.

The air had a slight nip to it, though the sun had only just begun to set. Molly clutched one gloved hand around the collar of her overcoat to ward off the chill. She walked briskly, anxious to curl up beside the fire, in her father’s old robe, and eat a hearty meal. Her cousins, the Andersons, were kind to put her up, and kinder still to spend very little time in their London home. Molly essentially lived alone, the only servants being a scullery maid named Sally, and Mrs. Jones, the cook. Molly had no guests to entertain, having thoroughly scandalized society by choosing to pursue medicine, thus the lack of servants suited her well.

Having been lost in thoughts of hearth and home, Molly started upon realizing where her feet had taken her. To her dismay, she found herself on Baker Street.

Her heart gave a painful throb at the renewed memories of the day’s events. Molly blinked against the tears that threatened. She had come too far along the street to turn back and find another route. It would likely be full dark before she arrived home, should she make the attempt. With a huff, Molly ducked her head and quickened her pace, hoping she would not be recognized when passing a certain detective’s home.

As she continued on her way, she became aware of a loud noise, the roar of a distant crowd. Next, caught an acrid scent on the soft breeze… and heard the clanging bell of the fire brigade.

_No…_

Hefting up her skirts above her ankles, she sprinted down the lane, praying she was wrong, that it was merely paranoia, an unpleasant residue from a highly emotional day. But as she rounded the last bend, her darkest fears were confirmed. 221 Baker Street was engulfed in flames, the fire brigade’s efforts to contain it, ineffective. And Sherlock…

“ _Sherlock!!”_

Molly raced toward the blaze, only to be caught and forced back. Just as she turned to strike her attacker, she recognized him as Inspector Lestrade. “You can’t go in there, Molly.”

“Where is he?” she demanded.

He swallowed hard. “We… haven’t found him.”

Before she could form a response, a thunderous crash from within the crumbling structure caught their attention. Molly watched helplessly as the roof caved in, taking with it the floor just beneath. The flames roared and climbed impossibly higher, spreading into the neighboring homes. A second brigade arrived on the scene, and their doubled efforts managed to contain the damage, but did little to extinguish it. 221 Baker Street was lost--as, undoubtedly, were any occupants remaining inside.

_The only way I could possibly lose everything… would be to lose you._

“Oh, God,” she sobbed, her vision blurring with tears. Lestrade, knowing and understanding her feelings for Sherlock, pulled her close in a comforting embrace. Molly buried her face against his coat, soaking the woolen fabric within seconds.

She gasped at a sudden cry from the crowd, and all eyes turned to see two figures emerging from the flames, one supporting the other at his side. The first figure took slow, measured steps, taking great care with the added weight. The second, clearly unconscious, was markedly taller than the first, even slumped against him. Molly quickly recognized John Watson, carrying Sherlock out of the fire and to safety. She rushed toward them, closely followed by Lestrade.

John grunted as he shifted Sherlock’s weight from his shoulders, and laid him on a stretcher. “He’s breathing,” he announced, “but he’s taken in a great deal of smoke. We need to get him to a hospital, immediately.”

“Bart’s is closest,” Lestrade pointed out. “We’ll get him there.”

Feeling helpless once again, Molly watched the man she loved was carted off to Bart’s Hospital. She would not be allowed to see him at least until the following morning, and that was only if he… if he…

“He’ll be alright,” a kind, feminine voice said behind her, as if reading her thoughts. Molly turned to see Mary, John’s wife, standing a few paces away. “Our Sherlock is far too stubborn to die from a fire. With all that smoke he inhales from his pipe, I can’t imagine this fire will do much worse.”

Molly choked out a laugh, despite her dread. “I’ve always hated pipe smoke.”

Mary stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. At this distance, Molly could see the lines of worry around her eyes, and pulling down at the corners of her mouth. She spoke her words of comfort to herself, as much as anyone else. They said nothing more, merely shared a moment of tender friendship, then each departed for their own homes.

 

* * *

After a fitful night’s rest, Molly wrote a message to give to Stamford, informing him of the fire, and requesting a brief leave of absence. His kind and understanding nature would, she hoped, extend to such circumstances, particularly considering his regard for Sherlock. Stamford had been the one to introduce them, in fact, and had sung his praises to the point of embarrassment.

Molly smiled a bit at the memory, recalling the blunt way in which Sherlock had reminded Stamford of the work to be done, and sent the mortified doctor on his way. Fortunately for him, Stamford had a thick skin and a forgiving nature.

When she arrived at the hospital, she found a messenger and requested that he deliver her note to Stamford. With that finished, she made her way to the emergency ward, unquestioned due to her position. The ward mostly empty (thank the Lord), she had no difficulty finding him. There he lay, in the second bed on the left, directly across from one of the windows. The early morning sunlight filtered in and danced over his handsome face, marred with dirt and smoke and a gaping wound on his forehead. His breaths were even, but more shallow than they ought to be. Still, he _breathed_ , and with little evidence of permanent damage.

A lump formed in Molly’s throat as she approached, and Sherlock’s words repeated again and again in her mind. _The only way I could possibly lose everything… would be to lose you._ She understood this sentiment now more than ever before. How could she have been so foolish to try and ignore it? He was, and would forever be, her _everything_.

And she had almost given him up.

Molly sat delicately at the edge of the bed. The movement caused him to stir, but he did not wake, and she was unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved. Impulsively, she took his hand in hers, pressing his smoke-blackened fingers to her lips.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “Please forgive me.”

Sherlock did not respond, unsurprisingly, but continued to breathe. With a shuddering sigh, Molly moved from the bed to a nearby wooden chair, keeping his hand in hers. And there she remained, through several nurse’s visits, two mealtimes, and countless breaths. She asked questions of the doctors--her colleagues--but was always given the same response. They had done what they could to make him comfortable, now all that could be done was to wait.

And wait, she did. For quite some time, she merely watched him, memorizing every feature as if it might be the last she saw of them. When those thoughts turned too morbid even for _her_ tastes, she went about finding things to while away the hours. A nearby shelf housed several books, for public use, and she selected a number of titles she believed Sherlock might find intriguing. She read from several of them aloud, pausing after a few chapters to rest her voice and her eyes.

The sun’s rays had taken on the purplish hue of dusk when she cracked open the final tome, _The Code of Health and Longevity_. Sir John Sinclair, she had always thought, was a bit long-winded, and his book had been the least interesting of her selections, thus she had put off reading from it. With a resigned sigh, she turned to the introduction and read aloud. Even with her voice, the words were mundane and lifeless, until she reached one particular passage--the passage which, upon her first reading, had been the catalyst for her pursuit of a medical career.

“‘If by prolonging our existence also, we can be of more service to mankind, from the superior knowledge which greater experience and longer observation generally furnish, what can be more important, than to endeavor to preserve our health and strength, that we may be the better enabled to perform beneficial and useful actions to our fellow-creatures? For--’”

“‘For the power of doing good, is the chief object for which existence is desirable.’”

Molly swallowed thickly as she lowered the book with shaking hands. Sherlock watched her as closely as she had watched him these ten hours at least. Always a contradiction, their icy hue still managed to burn right through her. His voice, deeper than usual and rough from inhaling far too much smoke, sent a tremor down her spine. With every passing moment, another brick in the wall of her resistance crumbled into nothing, leaving a fierce determination. For perhaps the first time in her life, Margaret Alice Hooper decided to ignore her mind, and follow her heart.

She opened her mouth and took a breath, intent on telling him just that, but he beat her to it.

“Why did you come?” he asked.

Molly stared at him, stunned and saddened by his question. “Did you truly believe I wouldn’t?”

Sherlock averted his eyes, ashamed, and spoke softly, barely more than a whisper. “After our... conversation... this afternoon, I was not entirely sure you would want to see me.” He drew in a slow, rasping breath, eventually meeting her eyes again. “Forgive me, Molly.”

“No, it is you who must forgive me,” she insisted, looking down at her hands. “I allowed my fears to overcome my judgment, and took your parents’ slight as justification of those fears. Doing so was unfair to you--to the both of us--and I am sorry for it.” She gnawed on her lower lip for a moment, then spoke again in a broken voice, “Nearly losing you last night… forced me to realize just how lost _I_ would be if…” She trailed off, unable to form the words even now, with the danger past.

“I love you, Molly.”

Molly gasped, lifting wide eyes to meet his. To her utter shock, his were moist with tears. He tried to sit up, but groaned with pain and exhaustion, and gave up the attempt. Still, his gaze pierced her, and seared its way to her heart.

“I love you,” he repeated. “And I want to marry you. And the only person on this earth that may forbid me from doing so, is you. Neither society nor my infuriatingly old-fashioned parents have the power to shape my destiny. I’m not prone to believing in destiny, as it is,” he muttered off-handedly, “I am of the belief that man must make his own decisions. And _my_ decision... is _you_.”

Molly made a rather humiliating sound that was a cross between a laugh and a sob. Sherlock’s brow furrowed in concern, causing her to laugh and sob even more. In yet another rush of impulse, she lunged forward and captured his lips with her own. He stiffened at first, but soon softened beneath her touch, and his hands found their way to her face.

For several breathtaking moments, they lingered and drank in the magic of their first kiss. Molly pulled away at last, smiling so wide it almost hurt. “I love you, you impossible, infuriating man. And I cannot wait to be your wife.”

His eyes lit up with joy, and his smile matched hers. “Oh, thank God,” he murmured, before pulling her in for another intoxicating kiss.

They were married three weeks later, in a small, private ceremony in the Watsons’ home, Sherlock and Molly became man and wife. To the surprise of all, the wedding was attended by Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. Their behavior toward the new Mrs. Holmes was civil, if not kind, but they expressed their desire to be a part of their son’s life, no matter his decisions. Sherlock, with great effort, remained silent, merely smiling and nodding at his parents. Molly offered her thanks quietly, but with strength that, though she would never admit it, Mrs. Holmes admired.

Following the ceremony, a modest luncheon was served and quickly eaten. At Sherlock’s request, no rice or seed was thrown, and they departed after much well-wishing from family and friends. They would travel to Rome for the wedding trip, as Molly had an interest in seeing the catacombs, a fact which gave Sherlock no small amount of pride.

“It all feels a bit surreal,” Molly admitted as the carriage took them to the shipyard. “Almost like a dream.”

Sherlock smiled. “A dream from which we need never waken.” He leaned in and stole a kiss. “Let the gossips say what they will. The world is ours, Mrs. Holmes.”

“ _Doctor_ Holmes,” she corrected with a smirk.

“Doctor Holmes,” he agreed, then his face softened, her favorite, heated gaze setting every inch of her aflame. “My Molly. My forever.”

As their lips connected in another kiss, Molly decided she quite liked the sound of that.

> _It’s up to you, and it’s up to me;_  
>  _No one can say what we get to be.  
>  Why don’t we rewrite the stars?  
>  Changing the world to be ours..._


End file.
